The Pink Side of the Moon

By Larry Tritten

Most of the stars had even stopped kissing the lens. Ratings were definitely in the emergency room, headed for intensive care. There were 300 channels and only 22 of them were still Pink. Pornography, even at its most sophisticated and outré best had become associated with ennui. Vidiots and virtuoso surfers alike had gotten bored. It was hard to believe considering how popular Pink had been for three years since its virtual inception. Those were the days when orgasms like neural symphonies had left multitudes of viewers prostrate and simmering, their libidos exquisitely ransacked, come strewn all about like viscid bunting in the incandescent aftermath. Those were the good old days. Last year.

Pondering the dilemma, Larque Casa(Super)nova and Panda Behr were drinking in the Pointe-Noire Bar & Grill. It was a club with the ambience of a tunnel of divinity with Tiffany fireplaces. The light was soft lilac, and from dragonfly crystals that glided around slowly near the ceiling chaotic bits and pieces of surreal music filled the air.

"It's... fucked," Larque declared, shaking his head in frustration. He rested a hand on the bar as if to steady himself, and sighed. "Jesus, bear, lately when I'm on the box I have the feeling that I'm sticking my dick out into thousands of empty rooms. I used to get two, three hundred special date requests a show, now it's down to a pathetic dozen or so..."

"I know, I know," Panda said, giving Larque's basket an affectionate touch with her finger tips. She leaned forward and put her mouth against his, winnowed the tip of her tongue between his lips, and sifted a little gift of spit into his mouth, then drew back to watch as he savored it with a gradual smile.

He brushed her away with a good-natured snort.

"I still have orgasms like napalm explosions in a quartz mine," Panda said wistfully. "But in truth, beau gâteau, the scene just isn't what it was. Not by a come shot." She arched her eyebrows in emphasis and reached inside her silver pants to unseal the adhesive clutch of her labia with a spidery forefinger, then withdrew her hand and leaned forward to sketch a heart on Larque's cheek with pearly purée of girly gruel.

"I smell a liquor never brewed," Larque murmured with the poetic panache that had once made him the special love of thousands of hyper-romantic college girl viewers.

"Hey, why don't we do it right here?" Panda suggested suddenly with salacious enthusiasm. "Yes?" She glanced around and saw that there were only three other patrons in the place, sitting somnolently at a table across the room. Pointing to a corner booth, she said, "Keel haul me on that table over there."

Larque looked at the booth, nodded, then drew Panda off of her stool and across the floor, leading her with their fingers interlocked. At the booth he released her and she slid back along the table top, legs splayed, until her back was braced against the wall. Larque slipped into the booth beside her. In the absence of direct light he could see his reflection mirrored in the shiny black satin of one of her boots, his eyes bright, smile crooked. He eased her boots off and dropped them to the floor past his- straining hard-on, which Panda immediately sought with the nylon-encased toes of one foot. Larque grabbed her ankle and held the press of her toes against the resilient surge of his cock, his nostrils filling with the fragrance of leather and nylon. With his free hand, he reached for the zipper of Panda's pants and tugged at it, then yanked the pants down, feeling a flickering of frustration as her toes were withdrawn from his cook while he pulled the pants to her ankles to shuck them off. But now a whole carnal buffet awaited his gustation: the orange-tan nylon of Panda's stockings were textured with a pattern of hearts and anvils and Larque touched the crisp surface of one of them, bending down to kiss her ankle and lick upward along the flowing contour of her calf, one hand reaching to touch the crotch band of her panties and find the violet nylon sodden, a whiff of brine like spice in his nose. His fingers stole inside the taut band of fabric against the plush press of labia. In the meantime, Panda was discarding her blouse and adding her full heavy tits to the buffet. She restored the caressing presence of her foot to Larque's yearning cock while he drew his tongue up to her thigh, his fingers splurging inside the palpy rift of her cunt while his other hand hefted a buoyant tit. A rill of come spilled out of Panda's cunt past Larque's foraging fingers, and the sensation was so intoxicating that he withdrew his macerated fingers to suck the ooze off them with ecstatic passion.

"Let's go," Panda whispered impatiently, and Larque nodded, reaching into his pocket for a musical cylinder. He slid it swiftly into Panda's cunt and she drummed her buttocks on the table top as it sunk into the bog of her sex. Then all at once Panda became a tactile symphony from the tips of her flexing toes to the neural scrimmage in her radiant brain. The wet gap of her vulva emitted a shimmering sound of violins, the well of her womb vibrating with a rumbling of drums.

Holding her hips to steady her, Larque went diving, Panda's fingernails raking his ears. Laughing under her breath, Panda felt a small orgasm rush through her like quicksilver, tingling her with delicious sensation. A vulvar convulsion sent tremors of pleasure into the deeps of her cunt, her mind overwhelmed by waves of rapturous light. She felt herself slipping into a hot flow of sensation, all of her consciousness funneling in a rush and counterpointed by the music inside her to a fine, fine point of pure and ineffable stimulation.

Larque, in the meantime, had tapped into the flow by nosing a dermal sensor into Panda's sex behind the music cylinder and laving her clitoris with his tongue in its wake. She was riddled with a whole series of sweet little orgasms while her senses went round and round like stampeding fauns and centaurs on a runaway carousel, Larque applauding the show with a rhythmic fluttering of his tongue on her rosy clit.

When, moments later, Panda opened her eyes, she couldn't speak but just lay quietly, grinning dazedly.

"The Earth move?" Larque asked her, smiling.

Panda met his gaze, and murmured, "Heh, yeah, 'n' there were two supernovas in Pudenda Major... 'n' both moons of Uranus were definitely revolving, not to mention both moons of mine..."

Larque smiled with satisfaction. He always brought her down on the pink side of the moon, never leaving her stranded in darkness or cold space. How he loved her!

"I hope we can get married soon," Panda whispered, a smile melting on her mouth, her fingers reaching out to trail through Larque's hair.

Larque made a murmuring sound of assent. It was something they had been planning for over a year, the absolutely ultrakinky act of marriage. But with the market declining at its current rate it looked like they might be out of jobs before long, a frightening prospect, for they were, after all, star players committed to apotheosizing vicarious fucking.

Lance Cannon, the owner of Channel 99, sat glumly at his desk in his office. In chairs facing him sat Panda and Larque, his star players; Beryl, Fingers, and Bruce -- his Midnight Menage trio (Beryl a blonde gamine, Fingers an ambidextrous hermaphrodite, Bruce a gay blade); Pretzel Mitchell, whose late night matinee was known for its perverse surprises; The Hershey Highwayman and his companion, Lana Palindrome, pioneers in the area of anal sex; and Abel Baker, the channel's general manager.

"I guess you all know why we're here," Cannon said, surveying the group unhappily.

"Couldn't be for a raise, could it?" Pretzel said, smiling flippantly.

Cannon fixed her with a penetrating gaze, then frowned, turning his hands over on the desk in a gesture of helplessness. "Try again," he said bleakly.

There was a restless silence. Cannon opened a desk drawer and took out a sheet of paper. "These are the latest ratings." he said. "Bad shit, I assure you..."

"Bombs away," Baker muttered, lowering his eyes and exhaling a theatrical sigh.

Cannon held up the paper and waved it at his voluptuaries. "The Gholson ratings!" he proclaimed in an ominous tone. He stared at the paper. "Okay, now tune this info in, guys and dolls. It casts a shadow on all our futures... if any... So..." He paused dramatically before going on. "...the numero uno show on the box today is Dinner With the Donners--" he grimaced, "which is, as we know, a non-porn sitcom about table manners in the Old West... Okay, for number two we've got a game show, Prostrate For Prizes, another one of those Gizmo Productions that lay 'em in the aisle in the neuropsychiatric ward. Anyway..." A sigh. "...number three is another sitcom, Amos and Android..." Cannon shook his head. "I confess I'm missing the pieces with most of this new comedy." He went on, "Next we got The Aphrodisiactors. Improv on sexual stimulants, and I'll grant it's funny, it's funny -- but it's fuckin' softcore." He shook his head again. "Which is followed by Celebrity Lobotomy, which isn't bad, really, but not exactly an upper... Then in sixth place there's Microball..." He paused thoughtfully. "Seems to be the latest fad, which I guess I can understand -- last week's game between the Miami Molecules and Cincinnati Subatomics had me glued." Cannon waggled his fingers absently on the desktop as he went on. "Seventh place is a soap, Wanted Dead or In Love. Eight is another game show, Down and Out on Uppers. Drug humor!" Cannon winced. "Then there's The Green Apple Quick Step -- a shitcom. Go figure! And in tenth place..." Cannon held the paper up and tossed it away with a dismissive gesture as he finished, "Bad Day at Shamrock. An Irish western!"

The sheet of paper came to rest on the floor directly in front of one of Beryl's gold-chained sandals, where everyone stared at it as if to avoid facing Cannon's gaze.

"And so what is missing from the list?" Cannon asked them all, rhetorically. "You know the answer to that don't you, boys and ghouls? Porn is missing! There isn't a single Pink window in the top ten. Zilch! Where we are in the ratings I don't need to tell you..." Cannon glowered at the averted faces.

"Yeah, well, we all are hip to this," Larque said evenly, looking at Cannon with exasperation. "So, what next? What do we do?"

"That," Cannon said sharply, "is my question to you, Larque! What next? You know, I presume, that if we don't get our asses into at least the top thirty, we'll all be drawing welfare next season."

Everyone paled, except Baker, who flushed.

"Any plans, Lance?" Bruce asked. "I mean, I don't see what we can do to reverse public taste."

"It's a bitch, Bruce," Cannon said, shaking his head. Jesus, when lens kissing was the caprice half of the fucking top ten shows were as pink as Snow White's asshole. But it looks like the tide has gone out. And I say we'd damned well better figure out why."

"Hell, I could see it coming," Baker said. "It isn't that hard to figure. Porn is sophisticated provender, like crepes or caviar. Give the people caviar and they'll bolt it like gluttons for a while, but when the novelty's gone they'll be back in line for the old fundamental fast food burger..."

"Muleshit!" Pretzel exclaimed. "It's a matter of too many cooks spoiling the broth -- or should I say too many cocks spoiling the brothel? Overkill. Too much of a good thing. The public is just pigged out on prime Pink, taking a breathing, doing the analogical equivalent of having a post-coital cigarette before rousing themselves for more of the sweets. Porn'll be back with a hot vengeance." She put a hand inside the cleavage of her candy-striped blouse and sketched a nipple into prominence so that it made a peaked node against the silky material. "I hope..."

"Well, I know one thing," Cannon said, and looked intently at all of them as he spoke, "and that's that we had better come up with something fast. Because we are running out of time, friends. The dark clouds are descending..." He concluded with a vague gesture of appeal, his usual rigidly authoritative expression replaced by a blank stare.

"Yeh," muttered Larque, in the same moment giving Panda a look that acknowledged that their marriage and future were at stake, and she looked back at him with quiet alarm, making his heart founder.

Panda and Larque lived in a spacious loft furnished like a caliph's digs: the carpet displayed a handwoven design consisting of lattice of vines, leaves and palmettes; there were plush orchid- colored and rosaceous velvet chairs shaped like dehiscent vaginas into whose gossamer swale one might sink and languish, luxuriously; pink satin pillows abounded; and the ceiling of soft blue glass replicated a summer sky.

Panda lay sprawled against a brace of pillows, naked, knees propped up, watching TV. She was alone. It was Larque's night to do a solo show, and Panda always watched, enjoying the kinkiness of a video tryst with her man (and also a few other men and women compliments of her deft knack for porn surfing) as an interesting contrast with the real thing.

It was midnight. The CBS eye appeared on the screen, winked lewdly, then the picture dissolved into a halo of effervescent pink light, which gradually misted away to form an image of Larque seated and facing the camera, his lap enlivened by a spectacular and gargantuan hard-on.

"Hi" he said. "Good to see ya, Sue, Jerri, Terri, Sonata, Jackie, Tse Tse, Heidi, Poppy, Lezlie, Janine, Tansy, Angel, Astarte, Jinx, Muffy, Miss Tripps, and Little Beaver, not to mention those of you who didn't FAX holos. But especially for those I just named -- my special bunch o' cunts -- I have something special -- namely, voila!" Larque presented his hard-on with one hand, a good five inches of it jutting throbbingly above the curling caress of his fingers. The camera moved in and his plump glans dominated the screen like a purple bolster. "Hang loose, juicy, because I'm going to ball you from here to Baton Rouge. And speaking of red sticks, slumcake, here's one for you to sink your libido into. Assume the position, sissy, on your knees and elbows or with your knees pulled back to your chin, cause Larque is comin' on in!"

"0h, my," Panda muttered. She had already popped two bleeding hearts, downed a noggin of nixie piss from a ruby slipper, and rubbed her nose with exhilaration in some angel food curd she had harvested from a lesbian lover's cunt after a superb session of soixante-neuf, and now she was primed for a psychosexual fireworks display. The smell of Larque wafted from the TV screen, the 3-D image of his massive glans seeming to fill the space between her and the screen. Panda began to dabble at her clitoris with a forefinger, strumming it, her breath starting to filter in little gasps between her lips. Larque propelled his cock at her, grinning. With her free hand Panda snatched up the remote and tripped the porn surfing program. She was in love with Larque, true, but she was, after all, a porn star. Larque's dandled glans flicked away to be replaced by a picture of a cunt that had just disgorged a lover's cock and in zoomar closeup revealed a swash of blended girl cream and semen oozing from between the cleft labia to tide in a spunky veil into the adjacent perineal vale. The Orgasm Express went flying through the hinterlands of Panda's libido, headed for Climax Junction by way of Hot Quim Creek. On the screen another picture zipped into place: cunts and cocks in a kaleidoscopic pattern, the cunts soft as damask, cocks rigidly erect, all colored delectably -- hot pink rose mallow salmon primrose scarlet madder livid violet damson burnt rose maddermaddermadder. Another image zonked onto the screen: a cock that surged fabulously toward her (Larque's?), and Panda lashed her tongue around her lips with hot desire, a sparge of pearlslime spritzing out of her cunt as she marauded her clit with warm caresses, the juicy sweetening in her puss making her mind brim with slambang images of hot cock laid like a viand onto her tongue and funneled into her throat, cunt flourished against her mouth until her tongue was sore with nectar-seeking kisses, then a fanciful impression of cock & cook & cock splitting her triply asunder -- cunt & asshole & mouth -- like three carnal musketeers' soft hot blades fraternally joined in hot conjunction in her shimmering body.

The Orgasm Express hurtled into Climax Junction, with the whistle screaming, the freight sliding crazily around in its pink boxcars, and smoke going up in plumes from the red hot locomotive as its wheels braked in showers of sparks on sizzling rails.

When the smoke had cleared Panda lay limply, her forehead brocaded with sweat, exhausted, grinning. Yet even in the wake of hot fulfillment a little wisp of something like. . . frustration fluttered through her mind. She felt a little, she thought, like a ballerina who had felt one of her pink ankle straps coming unwound in the middle of a series of elegant arabesques... Too soon... Too quick.

Ah, there's the rub, Panda thought, smiling. Eureka! There used to be times, she remembered, when sex, even the climax of it, had been a sustained, or prolonged, process, a tightwire act of the senses that was a marvel of emotional continuity, and the pleasure went on, and on, dynamically. Yet these days it was always a racing in and speeding out. It was so fast, like everything else in the culture. Fast food. Speed reading. Channel surfing. And porn surfers, Panda thought, were the fastest channel changers of all. It was as if they were trying to exacerbate the polygamous and polyandrous attitudes that went with porn to the point where they could transcend linear restrictions, having more vicarious sex partners faster, yearning virtually to have more and more all at once.

Yes, oh, yes, Panda thought as the insight glowed in her mind like a dark gem.

On Saturday night, Panda's solo night on TV, she arrived at the studio wearing a long electric blue silk gown that was gathered up over one shoulder and draped her body in a series of lush folds, barely accenting the contours of her left breast, hip, and leg, and showing no more bare flesh than a shoulder and the tips of her toes in black sandals. She glided on camera and gazed at her audience through lidded eyes, smiling slightly.

For a full minute she said nothing, did nothing, just shifted this way and that in the chair while the gown caressed the supple curves of her body. She looked into the camera coyly and her mouth moved very subtly and sexily, shifting from playful moue to demi- smile to phantom puckering, her tongue wetting her lips intermittently.

"Don't you wish!?" she said teasingly, Her nostrils flared slightly, head lolling back. She moved her body with subtle motions and gestures, the silk limning its curves, rippling away. She saw the puzzled expressions of the camera crew, ignoring them.

Through an interminable half hour, Panda eased and shifted her body with voluptuous precision inside the silk gown, winking and beckoning at the camera, blowing airy kisses, and finally, moments before her fadeout, brought a single shiny finger from under her gown and held it up to exhibit the dampness, whispering, "See you soon, muffins. . . Can't say when. Check the sked..."

Nobody understood, as Panda knew would be the case. Cannon called her into his office to ask her what was going on, was she a fucking porn star or what? She got him to agree to give her carte blanche to try something that might save them all and he shook his head as she went out, baffled but intrigued.

Two days later Panda was back, doing more of the same, but by the end of this show she had lifted the hem of the gown enough to show a pretty ankle. She had touched her breasts, but fleetingly, and she left her haunting smile and throaty laugh in the memories of thousands of viewers.

Three days after that Panda spent much time trying on different pairs of shoes -- pink patent leather thongs, black satin pumps, python-skin boots, plaid sneakers, pumps with gold and diamond ankle bracelets, silver and black running shoes. Her lovely feet were continuously displayed, but the rest of her remained a mystery.

Calls began to come in to the station -- perplexed, fascinated, expectant, yearning.

On the next show Panda confided to her viewers what naughty thoughts she entertained in the bowers of her mind, and as she confessed sexual desires, with her eyes lightly shut, she continually did something beneath her gown with one hand that kept her smile serene and floating on her face for a full half hour, her eyes only opening to mere slits for a brief moment before fadeout.

Panda's show jumped from 255th, just behind Headcheese Chef, to 10th place.

On her fifth show Panda removed her panties beneath her gown and blushingly held them up to show that the crotch band was covered with a dark stain. She spent the rest of the show inhaling their bouquet, mopping sweat from her head with them, talking absently about her struggle against wicked feelings, wild desires.

Panda's show moved to seventh place. Cannon doubled her salary. Millions of viewers yearned for Panda, not knowing how long it might be before their fantasies might come true. In the porn scene there was a revolution, the quick zippy fuck giving way to foreplay, titillation, and stylized provocation as the joy of sustained desire upstaged the objective of culmination. Panda was showing people that it was the scarcity of a delicacy that made it so desirable. Moreover, she planned on showing them when she did get to having sex on screen that fucking was endlessly enjoyable when it had duration and continuity. It was karezza, an ancient discipline, come round again to instruct a blasé era on the nature of pleasure.

Pondering it all, Panda and Larque were having drinks in the Pointe-Noire Bar & Grill. Earlier in the day they had set the date for their wedding, on the following week.

"What sex needs to be great," Panda told Larque, "is mood, build-up, and lots and lots and lots of sustained collaboration."

Larque nodded, and put a hand on Panda's knee, which she gently removed.

"Hey!" he protested.

Panda gave him an alluring smile.

"Why don't we do it right here?" Larque suggested, grinning lasciviously.

"Here? Before our wedding?"

"Yeah, sure. Honey. C'mon.

Panda blinked. Let's do."

Panda gave Larque a look of reproof and shook her head, then took his hand and guided it under her dress so that his fingers touched, for just an instant, the nylon of her panties. His fingers congealed into a palsied fist.

"Let's wait til Saturday, after the wedding," she whispered, smiling sweetly. "Okay?" She gave him back his fist and looked away. "Be nice now, okay?"

Larque closed his eyes and reached for his drink. "Okay," he said resignedly, wondering what color Panda's panties were and how many drinks it might take to get her to behave like a porn star.